Missing the Past
by StarSpray
Summary: Elrond goes to Himling, hoping to find Maglor.


_Written for the Silmarillion Writers' Guild Holiday Feast challenge. It references and directly follows my other fics_ Lonely Isle of Himling _and_ So Wide a Sea.

* * *

Elrond had never seen Himring before. Certainly not in his childhood, long after Maedhros' lands had been overrun, and not later, after Beleriand was drowned and all that remained were a handful of lonely islands peeking out of the waves. There had been too much to do at the start of the Second Age, and then he forgot about it entirely, until his strange and wayward uncles had decided to take up sailing, for the sole purpose of exploring the ruins and seeing what Tol Fuin looked like.

Tol Fuin, they had said, was the domain of sea birds now. But there were remnants still of the once-mighty fortress standing on lonely Himling, falling to age and weather but only slowly, having been wrought by the Noldor at the height of their power. Eluréd and Elurín had even brought back a porcelain vase, still intact and bearing the mark of its Dwarven maker. It had been a gift, they told him, from Azaghâl to Maedhros in honor of their alliance.

Elrond narrowed his eyes at them. "How do you know that?" he asked. It was obviously of Dwarf make, and perhaps there were some who could narrow its workings to ancient Belegost, but even in Imladris he was not sure there was anyone who would now the details of all the gifts exchanged between Maedhros and Azaghâl.

Elurín smiled brightly at him, that smile that always came when he was about to tell a tall tale or an outrageous lie. "Why, a friendly ghost, of course!" he said. "Anyone will tell you that the coastline is haunted up Himling way, and the island itself is no stranger to lingering spirits. Most of the stories stem from mournful winds, of course, but there's always a bit of truth somewhere—"

Eluréd elbowed him. "Don't tease our nephew, Elurín," he said, adopting a mock-scolding look. "He's still so young and impressionable." But before Elrond had finished rolling his eyes, he sobered and turned to face him fully. "It was not a ghost that told us, but I would say that he's haunting the ruins on Himling rather than dwelling in them. It was Maglor Fëanorion."

It was a good thing that Elrond had already set the vase down on the table between them, or else he would have dropped it, shattering porcelain that had weathered a thousand years of sea rain and winds. He looked from Eluréd to Elurín and back again, waiting for them to start laughing at him again. But neither did. "Maglor," he repeated finally. "You met…Maglor Fëanorion."

"We did," said Elurín. "And since we're telling truths, you should know that Eluréd _did_ punch him. Just the once."

"Just once?" Elrond said weakly. Eluréd only shrugged. "When was this?"

His uncles exchanged a glance, both of them frowning, and Elurín did some adding on his fingers. "A handful of months," he said finally. "We went from Himling to Tol Fuin—which was rather disappointing in most respects—and then we spent some time searching for Tol Morwen, but we never found it. Then we spent some time in Mithlond; we met Gil-galad, he's very impressive."

"And then we stopped to see Iarwain and Goldberry on our way here," Eluréd added. "So perhaps it has been five or six months. We weren't counting, and we were in no particular hurry."

Elrond was already calculating how soon he could leave Imladris, and how quickly he could reach Mithlond. Beyond that he was not at all sure how he would reach Himling, or how long it would take—Círdan would help him, he was sure. But Gil-galad might have objections…

An hour later he was in the stable, saddling his horse. Elurín found him there. Or perhaps he had been there already—it was always difficult to tell when he or Eluréd just appeared when one turned around, as was the case here. "We did tell him to come here," Elurín said. He sat on one of the stall partitions, kicking his heels against the wood as he watched Elrond fiddle with the saddle straps. "We said you would probably not punch him if he did."

"Did he say whether he would come?" Elrond asked.

" _Perhaps_ , he said, and bid us farewell," Elurín said. "It did not seem to me as though he was ready to stop wandering in pain and regret, or whatever it is the songs say." He waved a hand. On the surface he—and Eluréd—were often dismissive and irreverent, choosing to laugh at otherwise serious things, but there was a tension underneath his words now that Elrond did not remember ever being there before. "Why go after him if he is so intent on not being found?"

"There is a difference between wanting to be left alone and punishing oneself," he said finally.

"He has done quite a lot that deserves punishment," Elurín pointed out.

"Yet you shared your fire with him," Elrond said.

"I like to think that my brother and I are not cruel," Elurín said mildly. "We would not leave someone to freeze or starve, although I daresay he was in no danger of either. And anyway, we were curious." He jumped lightly to the ground as Elrond led his horse from the stall, and together they walked into the sunny yard. Lindir was somewhere nearby singing a silly song about blackbirds; beyond him in one of the forges hammers were ringing. "Well, I suppose there would be no talking you out of it in any case," Elurín said.

"You could have not told me he was there," Elrond pointed out.

Elurín laughed and shook his head. "No, I don't think we could! You are very difficult to deceive, Elrond." He sobered as suddenly as he had laughed, though, and put a hand on Elrond's shoulder. "But in your search for Maglor, do not forget Elwing."

"I have never forgotten my mother," Elrond said. "But I know where she is, and that she is safe and well."

"That is true. She might be better for some word or message from you. There are birds that cross the Great Sea from Lindon to her tower; albatrosses, it seems, are clever as ravens and speak Elven tongues. You might meet one on your travels, and it might even consent to be your messenger."

"I will remember."

.

The journey to Mithlond was quick and easy; Elrond passed caravans of dwarves and wandering companies of elves, as well as mannish hunters and merchants. The land was still much changed from what it had been before the war; where once great forests had stood were moorlands and still-barren heaths. But Lindon was much as it had ever been, though there were many houses and homesteads that stood empty now, their inhabitants killed or sailed, or both.

Círdan greeted him cheerfully. His cheeks and chin were covered in pale stubble, and he kept scratching at them as he walked inside with Elrond. "There are Men that shave their beards, but I've found it a nuisance—you must do it every day! So I'm going to let it grow out, and let Gildor laugh at me. Your uncles have already had their fun over it, I hope. Have they made it back to Imladris yet?"

"Yes, they're there now, although who knows where they will be when I return."

"What brings you to Mithlond, then?" Círdan asked. They reached his favorite parlor, with the balcony overlooking the harbor, and he poured them each a small glass of miruvor.

"What they found on Himling. Did they tell you?"

"They mentioned ruins, and something about pottery, although Gil-galad was here when they returned, and most of the visit was taken up with what they had been doing _before_ taking up sailing. He was trying to get their measure, but I'm afraid he was rather less than successful."

"I don't think they're going to set up a second Doriath, if that is what he's concerned about," Elrond said. "Elurín told me once that the thought of such responsibility made him break out in hives." Círdan chuckled, and Elrond sipped at his miruvor. "But no, it is not ruins or pottery I am interested in. They told me that Maglor was living on Himling."

Círdan set down his glass. He did not look surprised. "I had heard rumors," he said. "The fishermen up the coast that way are a superstitious folk, and I've long thought that their ghost stories might have a particular source. But I did not think he was _still_ there, or that he'd gone out to Himling Isle."

"It makes sense," Elrond said, staring down into his glass and watching the liquid catch the sunlight as he turned it in his fingers. "Is there a boat I could borrow?"

"Well, there's always Eluréd and Elurín's," said Círdan. "They told me that I could do what I wished with it. But it was built for at least two to sail; you would have some trouble trying to get up the coast on your own, I think."

"A smaller one, then," Elrond began, but Círdan shook his head.

"I will go with you," he said, and chuckled at Elrond's surprise. "There is nothing keeping me here just at the moment, and it has been quite a long time since I went out sailing just for its own sake. If Maglor is still there, I won't interfere with your reunion. And you'll need help smuggling him back through Lindon. If you can talk him into it."

They departed Mithlond the next day on Eluréd and Elurín's boat, with its ridiculous name still painted in bold letters on the side. Coming to Mithlond always brought Elros to the forefront of Elrond's mind, and even more so being out on the water. He would have liked their uncles, and he would have laughed himself hoarse at Cairí Yocairthîr.

He wished they had gotten the chance to go explore Himling Isle together, though perhaps it was better that they had not attempted it. The coastlines had taken a very long time to settle, after the War of Wrath—the rumblings and storms had continued for some years after Elros had departed for the Star Isle. Had they attempted the adventure, he suspected they would not have gotten very far. And after Elros had left for his island kingdom he had never come back, and they had not seen each other again.

But if Elros could not be there, Círdan was the next best. In spite of his growing beard, he was as nimble as ever, and Elrond was sure that he could sail it himself with no trouble, in spite of that talk about it being built for at least two. The winds and currents were on their side, and they made good time up the coast, stopping at fishing villages in the night where both Men and Elves were happy to welcome them and share tales and news—and to laugh at their boat.

At last, Himling Isle rose out of the early mists, a small island of steep hills and crumbling towers like a broken crown upon a bowed grey head. It was quiet, except for the faraway call of a gull, as they drifted toward a small pebbled beach, where Círdan and Elrond both jumped out to haul Cairí Yocairthîr half onto land. "Good luck," Círdan said.

"What will you do?" Elrond asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Stretch my legs a bit, perhaps have a nap. Or catch up with an old friend." Círdan was looking out toward the water, but when Elrond followed his gaze he could see nothing but the waves, and the mainland a hazy dark shape in the distance. "Go on, have a look around. I never saw the fortress when it was whole, but I hear it was quite impressive."

There was no clear path going around the perimeter of the island, so Elrond found a track heading inland and followed it, dodging trailing branches and roots. Stone walkways were still mostly intact, though cracked at the edges and occasionally through the center where bits of grass poked through. Aside from the occasional breeze, and the sound of waves on all sides, it was eerily quiet, a desolate place. Elrond shivered and pulled his cloak more tightly about his shoulders. It was perhaps a place to visit, for the daring and curious—like his uncles—but not a place to live. Not for long, anyway. Neither Eluréd nor Elurín had said whether Maglor had told them how long he had been on the island.

He found himself climbing stairs up to the remnants of fortress walls. Every so often he spotted the fading eight-pointed star of Fëanor carved into the stone. He stopped at the top and ran his fingers over one such carving. From where he stood he could see most of the island, though parts were hidden by walls or rocks or hunched-over trees. It did not look as though anyone else was there, except Círdan. From where Elrond stood he could faintly hear Círdan's voice, though whether he was singing to himself or having a conversation was unclear.

Going down a different way, Elrond stopped often to pick up and examine little bits of things, signs that this had once been a place many people called home. He found a crystal inkwell, still intact, but rounded by time and the elements so that it could no longer stand properly on a flat surface. There were arrowheads aplenty, both stone and metal, and fragments of chain mail, shards of blades, the occasional sword hilt. There were fragments of pottery, though nothing as fine or nearly as intact as the vase Eluréd and Elurín had brought back to Imladris.

There were signs of more current habitation as well, though they were faint and fading—a few fire pits filled with damp charcoal, a lean-to that had been built but not dismantled. He found a secluded hollow in the shoreline where a small boat might have fit, but it was empty. Maglor had been here once, but he was here no longer.

Elrond ended up in another secluded, sheltered hollow, facing west, where he found a boulder right on the water where he could sit without getting soaked. It was after noon by then, but there were still some hours left until evening. In the far distance he could see a faint dark outline—Tol Fuin, the remnants of Dorthonion, where his great-grandfather had been born. He drew his knees up and looped his arms loosely around them. Somewhere far, far beyond Tol Fuin lay the Undying Lands, where his mother dwelt in her tower by the seashore.

What would she say if she knew why he had come here to Himling? No doubt her feelings would be the same as her brothers'.

At first he did not notice the change in the water; by the time he did it was too late to prepare himself, and when the figure of a woman raised herself up out of the water, her hair as streaming foam, her eyes as the reflection of starlight on smooth water, it was all he could do not to fall off of his rock into the surf. Instead he slipped off of it and landed on his feet, just steady enough to bow. "Lady Uinen," he said.

She smiled at him; her gown was of woven kelp, decorated with strings of pearls and seashells. "Elwing's son," she said, in a voice like rushing water. "You are far from your hidden valley."

"I came seeking someone," Elrond said as he straightened.

Uinen nodded. "Maglor son of Fëanor is not here," she said. "He has not been here since Dior's sons came to disturb his lamentation with their laughter and unlocked for mercy." Elrond had thought that this would be no more than he expected—but it was a blow nonetheless. "But you need not worry for his safety. He walks the shores alone, but unharmed. That is the fate he has chosen, the song he is writing for himself."

A song did not need to end as it began, Elrond thought but did not say. "Thank you, my lady," he said instead." I am glad to know that he is safe and well."

"You may rest easy knowing that his song will not end any time soon. He is never far from the thoughts of my Lord Ulmo and of Lady Nienna."

That, at least, was good to hear. Elrond bowed again, and watched as she sank back into the water, retreating from the shore with the waves, and vanishing in a glimmer into the depths, heading westward toward deeper waters. Or toward Valinor.

Elrond crouched on the pebbles and picked one up. It was small, the size of a robin's egg and the same shape, worn smooth and flat by the water. It was dark grey and gleamed wetly in his hand. He slipped it into his pocket, and turned to go back to Círdan on the boat.

He found Círdan sitting on the beach cross-legged, and laughing with one who could only be Ossë, whose form was not as easily distinguishable as the one Uinen had taken; only the glimmer of his eyes told Elrond which of the tossing waves just off the shore was the Maia. He rose a little higher and dipped in what might have been a bow, before saying something to Círdan in a voice like water crashing against rocks, and melting away into the surf. Círdan stood, brushing grit away as he turned toward Elrond. "No luck, eh?" he said. Elrond shook his head. "Ah, well. Ossë says Maglor left the island not long after Eluréd and Elurín. He was long gone by the time they reached Tol Fuin, I'd wager, let alone by the time they got back to you. But at least we know he lives still, and did not cast himself into the sea as some like to say."

"Yes, at least we know that." Elrond helped Círdan push the boat back into the water, and they both jumped on, Círdan with more grace than Elrond. "What else did Ossë say?"

"Little of interest to anyone besides a sailor," Círdan said. "We spoke of tides and storms, and of the doings of Númenor. Nothing new or particularly interesting," he added when Elrond looked up. "And things seem quiet in the south and east. That makes me uneasy."

Elrond hummed in agreement. There was peace for the moment, but who knew what Sauron was planning, away behind the mountain walls of Mordor? But until he made a move there was nothing they could do but wait and watch. They drifted away from the island, and he looked back over his shoulder to the wind-bent trees and hardy grasses, to the handful of sea birds wheeling in the cloudy sky above, to the broken stones atop what had once been a great hill that looked over wide green plains. Himring fortress had fallen long before Elrond had been born. But Himling Isle still stood, and it occurred to him to wonder at that—that the fortress of Maedhros son of Fëanor would remain as a monument and testament to Beleriand after other arguably greater places had drowned.

.

The journey back to Mithlond was as uneventful as the journey north, though quieter. Mithlond was bustling and normal, and it was almost jarring to return to it after the near-silence of Himling. They arrived in the middle of the afternoon, weaving between fishing boats and larger vessels bound for the south—or for Númenor—throughout the Gulf. Elrond scanned the skies for birds larger than gulls, but if there were any albatrosses visiting Lindon, he did not see them.

After returning to Círdan's home to change into clean clothes and wash the salt out of his hair, Elrond went walking through the marketplace. It was not nearly as large or diverse as ones he had seen in Eregion, but traders still came from as far as the Long Lake in Wilderland or from Lond Daer or even Belfalas to barter and sell their wares. Dwarves from the Ered Luin greeted Elrond cheerfully, and told him of a new vein of copper ore they had discovered, while showing off copper tools and cooking pots and pans and jewelry. Elrond agreed that the new vein was very exciting, but did not purchase anything; he had no need of a new teakettle.

He _did_ come away from the market with a necklace of freshwater pearls from the Long Lake, interspersed with tiny quartz beads carved into roses. It was not expensive or as fine as something made by Dwarves, or the Noldor, or even Sindarin craftsmen, but it was lovely in its simplicity, and the girl selling it had lit up with delight when he had picked it up; her brother had harvested the pearls, she said, and she herself had carved the quartz beads.

"That's pretty," Círdan said when he saw Elrond with it. "Is it a gift?" His eyes twinkled. "For a certain lady, perhaps?"

"Yes," Elrond said. "But not the one you are thinking of. Are there any ships departing for Tol Eressëa soon?"

"There's one next week. I hope you aren't going to ask next if there are any empty berths."

"Only if there will be room for a small package."

"Ah, yes. Of course there is. Bring it to me when you are ready and I will see that it gets on board."

Elrond had not written to Elwing since before the war against Sauron. There had been too much to do and nothing happening that belonged in a letter to one's mother, and then after it had ended he had been so caught up in establishing Imladris as something more than an emergency refuge that letter-writing had slipped first to the bottom of his priorities, and then out of his mind altogether, until Elurín had told him of albatrosses that visited his mother's tower by the sea; but he did not need birds to send things to her, when there were ships and willing elven hands.

His letter spanned many pages, and in it he described Imladris and all that he was planning and hoping for it. He wrote also of his uncles and their miraculous survival and often silly antics when they visited him, and of the recovery after the war and Lindon's continuing prosperity. He did not tell her of his journey to Himling or his search for Maglor. That would be a conversation for when they met face to face, whenever that might be. And when he finished the letter he slipped it and the necklace into a small satchel, secured against damp and secured with a clasp bearing the star of his own sigil.

A week later, he stood at dawn with Círdan and watched the ship disappear out of the Gulf of Lhûn to the open Sea, bound for Avallónë. In the western sky Gil-Estel shone like a beacon in the western sky.


End file.
